


those words that belonged on your lips

by choir



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choir/pseuds/choir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanai buys the ring on a whim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. marriage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunick/gifts).



> For Amanda, as always. Good luck on your finals, too :)

 

 

“He’s going to say no, isn’t he,” Hanai angsts into his morning coffee.

“Hanai,” Izumi raises an eyebrow, doing nothing to hide the amused expression on his face. “Anyone who’s stupid enough to date you for so long can’t back out now.”

Hanai lifts his head up to glare in Izumi’s direction. “You’re not helping.”

“How? That should be reassurance. Tajima is a big enough idiot to love someone like you.”

“How do I do it?” groans Hanai, hanging his head in his hands. “How the hell are you supposed to propose to someone? Am I supposed to take him out to dinner, or a park, or --”

“Jesus Christ, you are annoying to listen to.” Izumi sighs. “Tajima wouldn’t mind if you proposed in a fucking pizza place.”

“So I should take him out to pizza?”

“No!”

“But you said --”

“It was an expression, Hanai,” Izumi says, exasperated. “Look. Just do it somewhere that’s meaningful to both of you.”

Hanai rubs his temples. “I can’t do it.”

“You already paid for the damn ring, so you have to. Now pay for my next coffee, too, because I’m not a marriage counselor.”

“Izumi, that’s a different job.”

“You think you’ll stop complaining when you’re actually married? I don’t think so.”

Hanai scowls and follows Izumi out.

  
  
  
  
  


Truthfully, Hanai buys the ring on a whim.

The story goes a bit like this: he’s (very) drunk after his colleague’s party one night and wakes up the next morning with a box in the right pocket of his overcoat, the sound of Tajima ransacking the house for food not helping his pounding headache. After nearly having a heart attack, he locks himself in the bathroom to let a mixture of nausea and frantic worrying pass.

The first thing he realizes: his subconscious is definitely hinting at something.

The second thing: he _wants_ to marry Tajima.

Needless to say, the realization is a bit of a blow to the gut, but when he finally walks into the kitchen, Tajima tilts his head and smiles, rushing over to wrap his arms around Hanai’s waist and whisper good morning against his bare chest, and it suddenly clicks.

The third thing: Tajima, in all his conflicting thoughts and actions and emotions, affects Hanai like no one else has or can, and he can’t ignore it, not when Tajima’s breath is warm on his skin and Hanai instinctively wraps his arms tighter, heart beating faster than it should.

Hanai makes breakfast that morning with Tajima hanging off his neck, struggling to suppress a smile, his pulse loud in his ears.

  
  
  
  
  


Hanai spends the rest of the workday after talking with Izumi in a panic.

A panic is a bit of an understatement, actually: he manages to trip over his own feet and bring a poor Mizutani down with him, spills his fourth cup of coffee on himself and effectively gives himself a first degree burn, and pisses off Izumi enough that he confines him to the corner of the office in an unused cubicle.

He sulks through the rest of the morning, crouched over his desk, glaring with such a fierce intensity at the computer screen that even his boss avoids him.

“You’re scaring everyone, Hanai!” Mizutani wails, poking his head into the cubicle. “Izumi told me, though. You’re gonna propose, huh? How?”

“I’m not,” grumbles Hanai, poking absentmindedly at his sandwich.

“Eh? Don’t act like that!” Mizutani says. “We just want to help.”

“I’ll make sure the both of you aren’t invited to the wedding.”

“Ah, so you are having a wedding! Well, personally, I think that the cake should be chocolate--”

Hanai stands and pushes Mizutani out, flustered and a bit flabbergasted.

“Izumi says you need to think this through more,” Mizutani complains as he is forcefully shoved over to Izumi’s desk, “unless you’re too chicken to even do that --”

“I get it, I get it!” Hanai growls, “I’m thinking about it.”

“We say it out of concern, I swear!”

Hanai storms out of the office for lunch.

  
  
  
  


“Were Izumi and Mizutani making fun of you again?” Tajima laughs, absentmindedly sipping a smoothie.

“How’d you guess,” Hanai deadpans, rubbing his hands over his face.

“You only text me to have lunch when they do,” Tajima shrugs, then slyly adds, “so I guess I don’t really mind.”

Hanai can’t believe he wants to spend the rest of his life with this guy. He’s going to seriously die of heart failure, eventually. “You always could ask me too,” he stutters, looking away.

Tajima purses his lips. “I could,” he says, slowly, “but I think I like it most when you ask.”

He can’t think of a response at first, staring down at the untouched salad between them. Oh God, he could pull the box out of his pocket and propose right now, in front of an entire restaurant full of people and probably humiliate himself entirely. The thought makes the box feel like a twenty pound weight in his pocket; Tajima _has_ to know about it, he’s not an idiot, and he’s always been more observant than Hanai, oh God, he’s going to say no, that’s why he’s not bringing it up --

“Hanai?” Tajima raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smile. “You haven’t looked this nervous since our first date and spilled water all over yourself.”

“I didn’t spill water on myself,” Hanai defends, letting his hand fall back out of his right pocket. “S-Someone bumped into me.”

“Hey, you looked pretty nice with a soaked white button down, so I wasn’t going to complain,” Tajima grins, leaning back in his chair. “‘Sides, I’d liked you for forever, and you being clumsy only seemed cute to me.”

Hanai sputters, a bit of salad falling out of his mouth, and stares at Tajima in shock. Tajima starts laughing, clutching his stomach, and almost falls out of his chair.

  
  
  
  
  


Tajima’s work isn’t far from Hanai’s, so they often walk home together.

They met this way, too; Tajima gave up his train seat to Hanai, shooting him a broad smile. Later, Tajima says he did it because Hanai looked stressed (and thought he was cute, but he doesn’t say that until the second date). Hanai doesn’t remember exactly what he was thinking about, only that he hadn’t been sleeping on account of college work that pushed his “bedtime” (if he even got one) into early morning hours.

Tajima was exuberant, strange, and drove him up the wall: their friendship was first characterized by Tajima’s antics and Hanai’s lack of will to stop them. He doesn’t even remember _how_ they became friends, but Tajima insists that it was arguing over the best way to drink coffee.

How they got to dating is an even greater mystery, however.

What Hanai remembers is that they were playing video games in Tajima’s dorm, and his roommate was out. They had picked the only fighting game Hanai could possibly ever beat him at, and he was gloating a bit because he never really won anything when it came to Tajima.

He remembers Tajima pouting and looking at him, and then he was pinned against the couch and Tajima was moving his lips against his and Hanai wasn’t stopping it. What Hanai recalls best are the shudders that ran down his spine, the heat in his fingertips -- these are the things that never faded, because Tajima still kisses him in a way that makes him tremble.

When they parted, Tajima’s face was flushed, eyes glazed over; Hanai’s throat was dry, constricted in a way that made breathing difficult.

Hanai doesn’t remember the next part -- most likely because he was more dazed than anything -- but Tajima swears that he confessed, with cheesy battle music in the background, and Hanai had flushed so red that Tajima said he knew that he loved him, then.

  
  
  
  
  


He won’t admit it, but he did spill a jug of water on himself on their first date.

Tajima took him to a burger place for poor college students, and it was loud and greasy and the radio was blasting 70s disco, but Tajima was grinning so wide -- like he was the luckiest person in the world -- that Hanai barely noticed the fries were cold and his burger was more like a plate of grease.

The place was entirely self-serve; Hanai had been carrying a jug back to their table, watching the uncharacteristically shy expression on Tajima’s face. But he looked up, then, locking eyes with Hanai, and they were so big and blissful that Hanai tripped over his feet, spilling half of the water on his shirt and the other half on the floor.

As far as stupid things he’s done on a first date, that one took the cake. Apologizing profusely to the waiter shoved neat little daggers into his pride -- he was sure Tajima wouldn’t call him again, and that his laughter was at the patheticness of the situation rather than amusement.

Tajima called him again, though.

And again, and again.

  
  
  
  
  


“It’s so cold now,” Tajima whines, pressing his shoulder against Hanai’s side. “I want it to be summer again.”

“I don’t understand your hatred for snow,” Hanai says, wrapping his arm around Tajima’s shoulders, pulling him close. “You like pelting me with snowballs just fine.”

Tajima’s voice turns serious, as though mocking a debater or politician. “Arguably, the only good thing about winter is beating Hanai every year at snowball fights.”

Hanai lets out a sigh, less annoyed than he’s letting on. “Yeah, yeah. You just have a better throwing arm.”

“Not really,” Tajima says, speculative. “You just can’t build a good fort.”

“You’re just ridiculously fast,” Hanai grumbles, looking up at the real time feed to check for their train.

“I’ll bring Izumi and Mizutani next time,” Tajima grins up at him. “And Mihashi.”

Hanai glowers at Tajima as their train pulls up.

  
  
  
  
  


It’s been approximately five to six years since they started dating, three since Tajima moved into a small apartment with Hanai, and he still will not (and cannot) cook dinner.

Hanai doesn’t really mind: it gives him veto power over anything Tajima wants (except for birthdays, but he doesn’t really like to remember how the large amount of whip cream is generally used for something else). On days when they both get home late, Tajima will fall asleep at the table waiting for Hanai to finish; Hanai will kiss his forehead to wake him up, sometimes feeding him small pieces of chicken before carrying him to bed like a child.

(There are always benefits to being taller and bigger than Tajima, he knows.)

When they get home, Tajima opens a can of beer and throws himself over the couch, shouting about how _it’s Friday!_ and _I’m FREEE_ before turning on the T.V. to watch baseball, leaving Hanai to trudge over to the kitchen to find something to make.

He settles on cold leftover pizza in the end; Tajima doesn’t complain, seeming more content to wiggle into Hanai’s lap and sit there, commenting on every small thing about each team’s defense and offense.

“Hanai,” Tajima says eventually, “do you have something in your pocket?”

 _What._ Hanai freezes. “N-No …?”

“There’s just something poking into my thigh,” he says.

“Izumi gave me a box of paperclips, because he says I can’t keep my things together,” Hanai blurts out, sliding out of their position and standing up to put his coat away, all too aware of Tajima’s eyes on him.

“Shower,” Tajima eventually announces, standing and stretching up. “Hanai, you coming?”

Hanai chokes and turns around, watching Tajima laugh to himself and walk off to the bathroom.

  
  
  
  
  


“Hanai,” Tajima shouts, “bring me a towel! There are none in here.”

The box is still in his pocket. It feels even heavier than before, burning his skin even through the fabric, and he’s sure his face is on fire. He can’t stop thinking about it, not since Tajima mentioned it; his hands feel clammy and he’s so unsure. He hasn’t felt like this with Tajima for so long he had forgotten the feeling.

Taking a towel into the bathroom, Tajima holds out his hands expectantly, standing shivering on the mat on the floor, hair stuck to his face, droplets sliding off his shoulders, little bits of shampoo still caught in small bubbles on his neck. Something in him snaps. Hanai drops the towel; Tajima looks at him in confusion.

“Azusa?” he says, softly, confusion coloring his words.

Hanai thinks of Tajima; his huge personality, tendency to fall asleep on every surface in sight, bright eyes that stare at Hanai as though seeing right through him, the way he whispers I love you as they fall asleep.

He’s not doing this. He’s not sliding to the floor on one knee, he’s definitely not reaching into his pocket, not watching Tajima’s eyes widen in surprise, not fumbling to open the box, not opening his mouth to say four words before Tajima kneels down to kiss him, rough and open and wanting.

“Yes,” he mutters. “Even if you’re not romantic at all.”

Hanai can feel heat in his ears, at the base of his throat. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking away, sliding the small gold ring onto Tajima’s finger.

“No,” Tajima says, and to Hanai’s surprise, there’s a small ring of red on his cheeks, “it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“M-Marry me, Yuuichirou,” Hanai manages to whisper, voice shaking, pulling Tajima closer to him, soaking his shirt.

“Of course.”

  
  
  
  
  


Tajima is strong beneath him, mouth caught open and gasps forming clouds of white in the cold air, and Hanai can’t remember what it’s like to not be like this, Tajima’s nails digging into his back, a string of incoherencies leaving his mouth. There must have been nothing, before, because when he says _I love you_ with such a strong, sure voice, Hanai’s heart catches in his throat, and it hurts to breathe.

He doesn’t know what he has done to deserve it all, as Tajima whines and squirms, collarbone sharp and lined with sweat. He must have pleased a God, for the sight below, for what Tajima brings and leaves in him; love and fire so profound he wishes it will never change.

Before, Hanai must have thought they were too different to lay together, like this; but Tajima breaks down all barriers and obstacles in his path, leaving no room for doubt. Now, he marks himself along the line of Hanai’s hips, nuzzles himself into the crook of his neck, gently kisses at the base of his throat.

Exhaustion setting over them, Hanai runs his fingers along the shadows on Tajima’s face, something unidentifiable welling up inside of him.

He leans in, lightly pressing his lips against Tajima’s, and he can feel the small smile, there.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And, in the end:

  


“You proposed to him in your _bathroom?_ ” Izumi says, incredulous.

“Shut up,” Hanai groans.

“HE DIDN’T EVEN HAVE PANTS ON.”

“I realize that,” he says, laying his head on the desk.

“Oh my God, you guys got freaky after you proposed, didn’t you,” says Mizutani, without a hint of shame.

“We are not talking about this at _work_ , guys,” Hanai hisses out, booting up his computer.

Mizutani places a hand on Hanai’s shoulder. “So, where are you planning on having the wedding? It’s gotta be romantic, like a fancy bathroom in Paris, or something. Maybe you could fly out to London!”

Izumi nods solemnly. “It’s gotta have a nice view, too.”

“I hate you both,” Hanai mutters. “I’m going to quit this job.”

  



	2. housing

As it turns out, buying a house is more difficult than either of them previously thought.

Their credit rating is still mostly intact thanks to Hanai's persistence in paying their bills on time, despite Tajima's lusting over shiny red sports cars and expensive champagne (even if Hanai hates it, and prefers beer). It definitely helps, when they start shopping for loans.

But it's not like Hanai is blaming Tajima for that one time they could barely pay their bills on time. Oh, no. Not at all. He prefers to call it the silent treatment with a dash of "I can't fucking believe I live with you." It's not like Hanai's incredibly passive aggressive about it, either; he just likes to bring it up when they go grocery shopping or pass by the electronics department.

So when Tajima mentions _house_ one day on the train back from work, Hanai is stuck between having a heart attack and screaming that they already need to cut back some (this never includes cable, of course, because they both would much rather die than go a few days without baseball reruns). He's about to open his mouth and ask Tajima what the hell he's thinking, but stops when he sees his expression.

"I get a bonus next month, you know," he mutters, staring at his hands, where they've curled into small fists on his lap, shaking. "And a raise."

"Oh," Hanai helpfully adds, blinking in surprise.

"There are a few open houses not far from a train station, so I was thinking, you know, the apartment is getting kind of small, and"--he cuts himself off to rub the back of his neck, head rolling to the right to look Hanai in the eyes--"I want to buy a house with you."

Hanai internally groans, face frozen into an expression of pure terror. _Fuck._

"Hanai?" Tajima tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing. "Why do you look like someone just got shot?"

"M-Me too," he sputters, brain slowly cranking back to working conditions. "No, um, I mean, I want to as well. I was just surprised."

Tajima sighs, leaning onto Hanai's shoulder. The sun, filtering in low through the windows, catches on the small ring in his hand as he twirls it between his fingers. "Been thinking about it for a while."

"Cut back on the expensive food, and we'll talk," says Hanai, wrapping an arm around Tajima's shoulders.

He laughs, shoving Hanai playfully. "Ramen for a month?"

"Ramen for a month," Hanai agrees.

 

 

  

 

 

Every weekend they start to visit open houses. Sometimes Mizutani and Izumi tag along, if not just to irritate Hanai. Their excuse is that Tajima is their friend, too, and ganging up on him is too good of an opportunity to pass up; they often like to ignore the fact that they are in public, giving Hanai a headache every time they get kicked out on account of being too rowdy. Tajima is more often than not just too explicit, talking about exactly which pieces of furniture he would fuck Hanai over, much to Hanai’s chagrin.

Tajima also falls in love with every house they see -- there's one in the middle of a quieter part of town that he insists they have to bid on, before a day later they visit a smaller house by a large commercial street that is so buzzing with people Tajima insisted they have to bid on _that_ one, instead.

Neither are Mizutani or Izumi any help, forwarding him links for houses that go for way more than they can afford. While he admits the views are spectacular, yes, he later realizes that the only reason they are bothering to help is because if Hanai buys a fancy house, that means they can crash at it. Damn.

(Hanai tells Tajima very early on that they are restricting the number of parties his obnoxious coworkers are invited to. Tajima grudgingly agrees.)

After a few months of browsing and exhausting almost all their choices that don’t stray too far from work, he compiles a list of the ones they like the most. Tajima likes them all, so it comes down to Hanai’s vote for the final picks.

Their top choice is a hillside house, overlooking the city.

 

 

  

 

“Have you decided?” Mizutani asks, leaning over Hanai’s desk to steal a chip. Hanai swats his hand away.

“We think we’re going with that house on the hill,” he says, pinching the tip of his nose and staring at an odd salad concoction Tajima insisted on making that morning.

Izumi leans over, picking a piece of lettuce out of Hanai’s container. “Have you gotten pre-approved for the loan?”

“No thanks to Tajima, yes,” he sighs, shoving away his offensive lunch. “Had to work around those times we missed our credit card payments.”

“This, my friend,” Mizutani says, mouth stuffed with food, “is why Tajima made a mistake marrying you.”

Making a face, Izumi shoves Mizutani away. “Mizutani, that’s gross. We don’t want to see your half-chewed food any more than the words that come out of your mouth.”

“I’m hurt,” Mizutani feigns, clutching his chest and dramatically falling off the chair. Hanai just rolls his eyes.

“You’re placing a bid soon, right?” Izumi says, watching with amusement as Mizutani trips over the chair leg when he tries to stand back up.

“Yeah,” he rubs his temples. “If we wait any longer, we’re going to find a house we love even more.”

“Chiyo chose our house,” Mizutani butts in, voice rising into a wail, “I didn’t get to choose!”

“She also chose to marry you,” Izumi rests his head in his right hand, smirking. “And I’m not sure why.”

Hanai struggles not to laugh as Mizutani’s complaints overwhelm the conversation.

  

 

 

 

When they visit the house, Tajima is silent.

It’s unusual to watch him walk quietly throughout the house with a calm expression, how he gently runs his fingers down the sides of walls and windows. The first snow of the year is beginning to fall, and Tajima pulls his scarf up to cover his mouth. He doesn’t look unsure, more amazed. Hanai isn’t sure how to place the emotion he sees, there.

While they are later told the foundation needs to be remodeled, what they notice most then are the large windows left open in the cold breeze, how they can see every light flickering on and off from the city. It feels lonely, somehow, staring down at everything, rather than looking up.

Tajima seems to notice this as well; _the rooms are cold,_ he mentions, lacing his fingers with Hanai’s.

He squeezes Tajima’s hand in reply.

 

 

 

 

 

Moving is almost as big of a pain in the ass as buying the house. Mizutani often told Hanai that you never know how much stuff you have till you have to move it all; Hanai originally underestimated the gravity of Mizutani’s words. Even on a tight budget during the first few years that Tajima moved in to Hanai’s apartment, they had _so many things._

Most of them weren’t large, or overly expensive; Hanai’s collection of sketchbooks that began to inch past more than just a few, Tajima’s massive stacks of baseball scoresheets from when he was in college, still refusing to give them up. Small video game consoles, drawers of clothes, and collections of Izumi’s Grand Movie Recommendations. The little things, that defined their marriage, which made up a majority of the cardboard boxes.

Tajima laments over the loss of the couch (“So many memories!” he grins, obviously hinting at something not safe to talk about around children), and a lamp, for some reason that Hanai can’t identify. It’s a lamp. _A lamp._

“It’s sorta dumb,” says Tajima, leaning onto Hanai’s side. The living room, once packed with books and paintings and life, now lays out before them in empty silence. “But everything I’ve known with you is here. In a tiny apartment. See? It sounds stupid!”

“It’s not stupid,” says Hanai. “But the truck is waiting for us.”

“Yeah.” Tajima looks up at Hanai, so different and so similar to every year prior. “Besides, I really like our new living room.”

 

 

  

 

Tajima _really_ likes the new living room.

After Tajima naps on the couch for half a day, Hanai calls Mizutani and Izumi to come help them unpack, filling the room with squabble about what order to put movies in in the cabinet by the T.V., and where to put the plants Chiyo told them to bring. Mihashi shows up eventually, now standing in the corner talking about train bedsheets with Tajima (Hanai really doesn’t question their conversations, at this point, though they both leave Mihashi’s well being to Abe, the naggy roommate).

“Chiyo would be the only source of sanity in the room if she was here,” Hanai says, to no one in particular.

Izumi overhears, and just laughs.

 

 

 

  

“Having a big fridge feels strange,” Tajima frowns, opening and closing the fridge fifteen times over, as if to make sure that it’s actually there.

“You’re wasting electricity,” Hanai calls from the table, shifting through accounting details for work. “Maybe you should see if you can eat all the food in the fridge in a week, now.”

“Maybe I could,” Tajima hums, looking pensive.

“That wasn’t a challenge!” Hanai groans. “Don’t waste all the food.”

“But I get hungry!”

“It’s a miracle you aren’t five hundred pounds.”

“Hey, I exercise.”

“Playing catch once a week with Mihashi doesn’t count.”

“Should I go running with you in the mornings?” Tajima walks over to Hanai and plops in his lap, absentmindedly poking at the muscles in his arms.

“You have to wake up at six, you know.”

“I’ll get up at six to play baseball,” says Tajima, wrinkling his nose.

Hanai barely resists the urge to stand up and swing Tajima around like a child.

(Some things never get old.)

 

 

  

 

Then, later that night:

“I’ll go running with you,” Tajima murmurs, half asleep and slumping against Hanai’s shoulder.

They’re sitting on the couch, watching one of many movies Izumi insists they are idiots for never seeing, but neither of them are paying much attention. They really try to listen, sometimes, but more often than not it becomes background noise. Hanai can’t say he really minds.

“You will?” Hanai asks, incredulous.

“Sounds like fun,” he says (slurs).

“I’m holding you to that, you know.”

“Since when have I ever gone back on my word,” Tajima huffs, eyes flickering open. He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest.

Hanai raises an eyebrow. “Well, last month when you said you were going to meet me at the diner, checking the offers on one of the houses, promising to learn to make something other than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and--”

“Okay, okay!” Tajima waves his arms, glaring. “You made your point.”

“So. Six.”

After a glower and a long pause, Tajima looks back at him. “Six.”

 

(Tajima still kicks his ass, when they take off on Hanai’s usual trail the next morning. Hanai isn’t sure whether to be amused or feel like his pride shrunk ten sizes.)

 

 

 

 

 

Hanai’s done stupider things than expecting Tajima to learn how to cook, though.

He would argue that the second worst idea he’s ever had is buying a small stereo, because it gave Tajima _ideas._

The first is probably agreeing to take dancing classes with Tajima.

It was a _really_ bad idea.

Besides the fact that Hanai is the exact opposite of a virtuoso and can’t find the beat in even the most obvious of songs, Tajima is the exact same. He drags Hanai across the entire studio, laughing along with everyone else, even though Hanai is sure they’re not laughing with him, they’re laughing at him.

In some ways, it’s still fun. They drag Chiyo and Mizutani to a few, and Chiyo manages to blow everyone out of the water not by her moves, necessarily, but the fact that she can stay on beat, which Tajima seems to find to a miracle. Hanai bites down a comment along the lines of “you just get really excited and run across the room with me in tow” when Tajima complains about not understanding tempo, leaning on to Chiyo’s shoulder as he begs her to teach him.

She’s rather unsympathetic to his cause, leaving Hanai stuck with five dances that they should have learned during the class and only a basic understanding of how to waltz. Sort of.

At least Tajima seems happy enough.

 

  

 

 

What Hanai loves coming home to most is the view.

He’s given up on insisting he isn’t a sentimental person -- he likes coming home late to Tajima’s terrible attempts at homemade pasta sauce, the steady jazz playing in the background. It’s familiar, the way Tajima signifies _home_ in no matter what place they’re in.

Tajima is sitting on the couch, for once, when he opens the door around 11, eyes drooping like he’s been staring at the door for hours. Hanai feels a strange surge of affection beneath his chest that fuels a quick drop of his bag and definite rush to the couch to catch Tajima before he slumps back down, nearly asleep.

“Y’took a while,” mumbles Tajima, wrapping his arms around Hanai’s neck.

“Some interns entered a few weeks worth of data wrong,” Hanai grumbles, holding Tajima tighter. “And no one noticed. Izumi volunteered us both to fix it.”

“But it’s a Friday!” Tajima exclaims, shoving at Hanai’s chest and puffing out his cheeks. Hanai briefly wonders if he secretly married a five-year-old.

(Not that he minds.)

“We can go out to dinner tomorrow,” Hanai pokes Tajima’s temple, smirking slightly. “Since I’m sure you ate some inedible sandwich for dinner.”

“A carrot, actually,” Tajima says, face level and deadpan.

“A carrot,” Hanai repeats, staring at Tajima’s stomach. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Eating dinner alone sucks, you know!” he argues, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not used to it!”

“Sorry,” Hanai says, taken aback by Tajima’s sudden outburst. “Won’t happen again soon. The company hates paying overtime anyways.”

“I’m hungry now.”

“Too bad. No eating past ten, it’s bad for you.”

“Mean husband.”

“Correction: _best_ husband.”

Tajima tries to scowl, but his mouth twitches into a grin.

 

 

  

 

It’s oddly quiet that night.

The music dims to quiet piano, swinging in time to every flickering light down in the city, alive and excitable with nightlife. They both previously talked about how strange it would feel to live away from the bars and constant clack of shoes; although Tajima doesn’t mention it, but Hanai sometimes thinks he almost enjoys the silence, now.

The warm summer breeze that feeds in through the window reminds him of their first official visit as owners back in December, how Tajima ran a finger through the snow that accumulated on the windowsill, still uneasy about the expansive space of a house. Their apartment was small enough to see the other party from any place in the house if the doors were all open; now, Tajima can shout from the bathroom and Hanai may only barely understand him.

It’s not a bad thing, though. It’s never a bad thing.

“Hanai,” Tajima says, rolling off the couch and holding out a hand.

“Yes?”

“We should dance.”

Hanai raises an eyebrow.

“Hanai,” he mutters, punctuating his open hand with a quick snap of his wrist.

Sighing and giving Tajima an amused smile, Hanai takes his hand, still as warm and rough as when he held a baseball bat every day, callouses never really fading with the years.

Their dancing is still awkward and punctuated; Tajima trips over Hanai’s feet and runs in to the speaker, effectively shutting off the music, but they continue on, dancing to an irregular beat against the distant siren of city cars.


End file.
